Five master assassins: they are the judges, the silent executioners, and they will find the guilty.
Five who keep the world in balance.
Five with very different stories: One who loves her birthright; one who loathes it. One careless; one contradicto...
Usually, I wouldn't be sitting calmly opposite the most despicable man on earth. Usually, I'd be standing, glaring pointed accusations, but the game isn't fun if it's always the same.
I lean back in the antique chair and stare out the large open windows. Creamy blue curtains frame the darkness beyond. A glimmering Eiffel Tower winks back at me, glinting off of Cedric's balding head, who seems oblivious to the fact that I'm sitting today. Paris, the heaven of impractical clothing and croissants that smell like fresh butter, is the home of this douche. It's unfortunate.
Only his expensive mahogany desk and a few binders separate the two of us. He eyes the brown file resting on my lap, knowing full well that it contains some of the world's deadliest secrets.
The scantily clad French woman—who strutted out as I came in, smirking at my rumpled clothes—has left behind a musky smell of perfume. The scent tickles my nose, but that's nowhere near as irritating as the greedy expression on Cedric's face. Despite being a man who has everything, he's still not satisfied.
"New girlfriend?" I motion towards the office door. A breeze brushes against the dark shelves and plays with the ends of my long ponytail. I shiver.
He smiles with an insincerity that a toddler could look through. The light from the desk lamp reflects back in his watery, gray eyes when he looks to the right. It doesn't bother me though. You see, Cedric has a problem. I only make it worse.
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"S-something like that. Her name's Be-belle."
"Belle? Yeah, sure," I say with a snort, twirling a piece of dyed brown hair around my finger. "And I'm supposed to give this file to Henry. Not you, old man."
Cedric's smile falters, and he fingers his tie. "Henry isn't here. He ask-asked that you give it to me for sa-sa-safekeeping."
"You for safekeeping?" I say bitterly, thinking briefly of the time when he couldn't—no, didn't—keep something safe. Someone safe. "You can't even take care of your own coffee, Cedric."
Touching his cup of coffee reassuringly, as if to make sure I haven't stolen it, he then reaches under his desk for an envelope. Sweat forms at the corners of his temples, fingers twitching, his customary low self-esteem back in its rightful place. Paris has been warmer than usual this year though. Maybe it's just too hot for him.
"He-here, He-henry wrote you this."
Henry's real name is Chet Mookjai, but not even his close business associates in Thailand, where he came from, call him that. Not even I question it—and he's as close as I'll ever get to a real father.
